The sound of the rolling shutter door being pried open was particularly harsh late at night.
I huddled in the corner of the attic, clutching my phone in my hand, my knuckles turning white from the exertion. Old Song's warning was still ringing in his ears. The two guys who claimed to be private collectors were actually Long Shisan's thugs.
Shadows were rummaging downstairs, the sound of toolboxes being opened and the clanking of repair tools clashing. I held my breath and my heart almost stopped. The wooden boards in the attic are so old that they creak when moved.
But where that person was heading straight made my heart tighten.
He didn't touch my valuable-looking old porcelain, nor did he touch the ancient coins on the counter. Instead, he went straight to the old teapot from the Republic of China that I had just repaired in the afternoon. I helped my old neighbor next door, Grandma Zhao, to repair it. The relics left by her husband were said to have been taken from her hometown when they fled.
The shadow weighed the teapot, as if confirming something. Then the rolling shutter door was pulled down again, and the footsteps gradually faded away.
I collapsed on the ground, my back soaked with cold sweat. After waiting for a minute and confirming that there was no movement, I crept down to the attic. The tool box was rummaged through, but the teapot was missing.
Why steal a Republic of China teapot?
